


Never Be Sorry for Needing Me

by jagnikjen



Series: Thirty Day OTP Challenge [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Established Relationship, M/M, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 07:12:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6601660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jagnikjen/pseuds/jagnikjen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People did bloody awful things to one another, and Greg just wanted to be as close as possible to the one person in the world who belonged to him and no one else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Be Sorry for Needing Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NixxieFic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NixxieFic/gifts).



> I was inspired to do a 30-Day OTP Challenge for my OTP, Mystrade, after reading a_xmasmurder’s challenge for 00Q. I searched the interwebz for said challenge and found two that I could work from and combined them into one long list that I could pick and choose from. Surprisingly, there were only a couple of duplicate prompts. Not so surprising, there were several that I knew I could never pull off, so they were left off the master list altogether.
> 
> The individual chapters will posted in the order I write them—hopefully one every couple of weeks—but not in chronological order for their relationship. Day one: spooning.
> 
> Dedicated to [nixxie-fic](http://nixxie-fic.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr for her birthday, April 20.

The house was silent save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the study and the cool air smelled faintly of lemon polish. The tenseness in his shoulders eased. _He was home._ Greg began to shed his clothes at the top of the stairs.

Shoes first. Then belt.

The day had been hellish and he was too exhausted for even a shower.

Button-down dropped outside the bedroom door, vest dropped just inside. 

Trousers were stepped out of halfway across the darkened bedroom. He’d pick it all up in the morning.

Only the faint blue light of a night light in the en suite allowed him to see the lump that was Mycroft in their bed. His breath hitched in his throat. Thank _God_. People did bloody awful things to one another, and he just wanted to be as close as possible to the one person in the world who belonged to him and no one else.

He lifted the covers and slid between the cool bazillion-thread-count sheets and scooted right up behind Mycroft, plastering his front to Mycroft’s back. The faint scent of Mycroft’s shampoo and body wash filled the warm air that puffed into his face and was a balm to Greg’s overwrought senses. He slipped an arm around Mycroft’s waist and pressed his nose to the back of Mycroft’s neck and the fine line of his hair.

He didn’t usually bother Mycroft when he slept. He got little enough sleep as it was, and any sleep the man caught was sacred. But tonight, Greg needed to feel his chest rising and falling with breath, needed to feel the warmth of his skin. Mycroft shifted and rolled to face him.

“You’re home,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of Greg’s mouth, the smell of spearmint and Listerine ghosting across his nose.

“Sorry I woke you.” Greg he closed his eyes and buried his nose in Mycroft’s neck, but the crime scene appeared in living bloody color, and he choked and pulled away, gasping for air.

“What’s wrong?” Mycroft asked, rising to lean on an elbow and place a gentle hand on Greg’s forearm.

“Three little girls, Mycroft, all under the age of ten, and their mother.”

“I’m so sorry, love,” he said softly, offering a sympathetic squeeze. “What can I do?”

“Hold me. Please, just hold me. And tell me a story.”

“Of course…budge over.”

Greg shifted so that he was on his right side. The light on Mycroft’s bedside table came on dispelling the darkness and then his warmth wrapped around Greg. His body relaxed by degrees, and he drew in another deep breath. 

“I stopped by Baker Street this evening,” Mycroft said.

Greg snorted.

“Indeed. I arrived to find Sherlock standing atop the table in the living room and John giggling uncontrollably in his chair, although his feet were pulled up off the floor.

“It could only have been some sort of spider. One of Sherlock’s few fears—spiders.”

Greg made sound in the back of his throat, and snuggled into Mycroft’s embrace. Mycroft tightened his grip a bit and carried on. 

“Oh, he doesn’t mind the tiny ones, but anything larger than a centimeter…”

Mycroft’s perfect diction and posh vocabulary washed over Greg in the familiar rise and fall of pitch and tone. The tale moved from spiders to pirates, although Greg wasn’t quite sure how that happened. He wasn’t really listening to the words, just enjoying the deep rumble of Mycroft’s voice in his ear and the vibration against his back. His eyes eventually grew heavy, and he blinked until he couldn’t keep them open any longer. “Mmm…thanks…” he murmured. “’M sorry I woke you.”

“Never be sorry for needing me.”


End file.
